Hey Man, Nice Shot
by TheRockNRollBeauty
Summary: "He had always had a flair for the dramatic. He'd always imagined that he'd go out in a burst of glory, guns blazing, defending the weak and innocent, to be remembered forever.  He wished that he could still go out that way." Total Drabble, OOC, Suicide.


**So I'm celebrating my finishing of my beastly research paper on Soviet war film by writing something weird and short and…not very good. D: Ugh. whenever I'm lazy I write angst/death/whatever. This is SO OCC, I'm sorry, sometimes i get too experimental and weird when I write and lose track of characterization, its something I need to improve upon.**

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_His mind was made up. _

He had called his own press conference for the first time in decades, independent from his boss, from any body of government_—_he would be worried about the repercussions, except that it hardly mattered anymore.

_His mind was made up. _

He had always had a flair for the dramatic. He'd always imagined that he'd go out in a burst of glory, guns blazing, defending the weak and innocent, to be remembered forever as a hero. He wished that he could still go out that way.

Things had only gotten worse over the past two years. He could listen to the positive words that his boss told him, look up numbers and percentages and pour over the upturned trends in the stock market, but it didn't help at all to lift his spirits. There were still people everywhere in his country who cursed him everyday for their misfortune, while the two factions of government only served to split him and them further apart. There were people around the world who hated him, who wanted him dead, who wanted to see him and everything he represented demolished and desecrated. It was a depression. He could feel it in his bones, despite the fact that his government tried to convince him and his people otherwise. He hated the feeling of sadness and loneliness that had sunken into him, even more than he hated the idea of giving up.

As he entered the room, flanked by two black suited bodyguards he was instantly blinded by flashes of cameras and deafened by the sudden babble of reporters thrusting microphones in his face. Paying them no mind, he anxiously fiddled with the edge of his speech as he made his way to the podium.

The room was busy but not packed, naturally, he was not the president, nor any vitally important member of the cabinet. None of the people in the room knew who he really was; he had always been given some nondescript, low level position to serve as his cover. But that didn't matter; Arthur and the others would know what his words meant, and his people would feel the loss in their bones just as he had felt theirs in his.

He set the speech on the podium and briefly fiddled with his tie, smoothing down the front of his suit in a furtive attempt to put off a decision that he'd already made. He let his eyes travel up his body one more time, taking in the shined shoes, the crisp shirt and fine suit he had painstakingly agonized over, like a man on death row deciding on his last meal. The thought struck him and he found that he couldn't remember what the last thing he'd eaten had been. But it was a waste of time that he didn't have to dwell on all the moments of the past twenty four hours that had been his last. He did, however, take the time to remember the last kiss that he'd had_—_not twelve hours ago on the front porch of his own house, a touch and sensation that he had kept lingering in the hope that the other could see the gesture for what it really was. A proper goodbye, not the one that would be filmed today, as satisfactory as it would be for his other friends and family.

He ran a hand through brightly combed hair. He had cleaned up nicely for this one, last time, to try to leave at least a small legacy of dignity. Arthur would be proud of him.

He cleared his throat and began his speech to the flashing audience. He talked about pointless things, trivial matters about politics and business, things that he was already too tired from, blatantly disregarding any wave of questions being fielded his way. He tried to ignore how much it sounded like his own eulogy, delivered by a man who already knew that he was dead.

After he had finished clearing up all the unimportant details, he launched into the part of his speech that he had painfully and tearfully placed together last night, when his emotions had been running higher. A list of people he had wronged, people who had deserved more than violence, muskets and atom bombs in the past. People who he had failed. He listed off apology after apology, keeping his face as straight and unemotional as he could manage, despite his churning and roiling insides. He apologized to any and everyone that he could think of: his bosses, his soldiers, his people; Arthur, Matthew, Kiku, even sparing a few words for Ivan. Several times he paused, bit his lip, took a few short breaths. He had written it all down last night, but now, the words were more difficult to force out of his throat.

As he spoke, he let his right hand slide surreptitiously down behind the podium, fingers dancing anxiously as he finished speaking. He took a deep breath, briefly shutting his eyes and steeling himself.

"And now,"

He let his hands rest inside his pocket beneath his suit jacket, sweat beading on his forehead. He took in a shallow breath and put on a small, grim smile.

"In keeping with the United States' policy of bringing you the latest in blood and guts, you are going to see another first_—_an attempted suicide."

Before any could stop him he pulled the revolver from his pocket and pressed the barrel behind his right ear.

He heard collective gasps and screams before his vision cut to black.

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**Ah, wasn't that terrible? Yeah. I apologize, but this wouldn't leave me alone. **

**Explanation time: there was this reporter called Christine Chubbuck who shot herself in the head while live on the air back in the 70s, so you can blame that for this terrible drabble. D: Al's last words in this are also based on her own. Also, the title is based on a song by Filter which is in turn based on **_**another**_** on air suicide, that of American politician Bud Dwyer. **

**I'll get back to writing chapters for my other stories to get one up tonite and (hopefully) something fluffy by the weekend. Cheers!**


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